


spill a drop

by garam



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Peer Pressure, Post-Canon, Post-Castlevania (Cartoon) Season 3, Religious Guilt, nothing like a toast to ur first genocide amirite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23589328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garam/pseuds/garam
Summary: Nothing quite like a stiff drink to bring two tired forgemasters together.Or: Isaac makes one last irresponsible decision before he marches on Styria.
Relationships: Miranda & Isaac Laforeze
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	spill a drop

**Author's Note:**

> god damn do I love these 2 chaotic bastards together
> 
> (pls let me know what u think! I have a few ideas floating around Isaac's arc that I'm excited to share so let me know if u want more)

The nights were always colder when there was no one around to whisper behind her back. It was one of the simple joys of small towns, she supposed. The men didn’t approach her, the women talked shit about her, and the children screeched as they scattered away from that wretched old witch who resided in their town. The one who could turn dead cats into mutilated monsters from the souls of Hell itself, the one who threatened to do just that to the boys who came too close or played too loud. 

The town had always run on a strict curfew, but there were no guards paid high enough to scold the resident hag into hiding. She had a biting tongue and the murderous intent to back it up. No one ever came near her when she would strike up a smoke to warm herself during harsh winter nights. It was one of the things that hadn’t changed, she supposed, even now.

As terrible as it was to admit, Miranda sometimes preferred it this way. 

She had spent so much time in isolation, she could practically feel the approach of a visitor before their foot even touched ground. The air would ripple once. Twice. She took a long drag from her pipe and watched the black smoke furl from her nostrils. She doesn’t turn around, but she could smell him. The fumes of sweat and decay and victory. She set down her pipe. 

“Isaac...” She said to the approaching footsteps, “I would have figured you were halfway across Styria by now.”

“I was— distracted.” The latter walked towards her with the same cautious regality as when he had first arrived in her humble abode. The faint scratches on his face insinuated a battle well fought, and his bloodied tunic commemorated the victory to be in his tide, “My beasties are gathering the bodies now. By morning, I will be gone.” 

“Sounds like everything has worked in your favor then,” Miranda took another long breath from her pipe and turned her chair to face her colleague. She leaned forward, folding her arms attentively, “So how can I be of service to you tonight, forgemaster?” 

“I was hoping to find a little peace of mind,” He admitted, pulling back his tunic. A large black bottle lay tucked under his sleeve, “The night is quiet and I find myself needing...”

“Festivity,” Miranda smiled. She beckoned for him to come closer, “Come along then. You’ve come to the right woman.”

“I was going to say companionship.” He passed the wine to Miranda’s waiting hand and moved to settle at her side. The bottle was wrenched open with a satisfying pop, and he watched as Miranda took a deep inhale of its contents and sighed. 

“We had apricot trees a little ways around the west end,” she mumbled, reminiscent, “Every summer, they would squeeze the piss out of them and pass it off as alcohol. Four coins a bottle.”

Isaac blinked slowly. “I... suppose their frugality is admirable.”

“Admirable, my arse. It was a waste of good fruit.” She took a large gulp from the bottle and sighed indulgently. It had been too long since her last drink. She held out the wine to her colleague who had now gotten an unsavory look at the potent, black liquid inside. “On your dime, forgemaster.” She chuckled. 

“You may keep it,” Isaac said quickly, “I don’t partake in alcohol.”

“I see,” Miranda hummed thoughtfully, swirling a finger on the bottle’s rim, “Is there some morally righteous reason for that?” 

She took another swig as the man stared at her for a scrutinizing moment. “I’m Sufi.” he said flatly.

“And I’m Miranda. Surely after your entire bloody crusade, your god won’t be knickered by you indulging in a little wine?”

At Isaac’s defiant silence, she extended the bottle towards him, swirling it enticingly.

“Come, pretty forgemaster,” she purred, “It could be your last.”

Isaac pulled the loose end of his tunic tighter around his midriff, closing himself off from her ministrations.

“It will not,” he said defiantly, “I plan to return.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes and leaned towards the other forgemaster, their gazes meeting like a lock and key. 

“Nobody is immune to defeat, Isaac,” She said coldly, like a warning— like a promise, “Nobody is above being outwitted, outnumbered, and conquered. Not even you.”

A cold, heavy silence settled between them as she clashed Isaac’s glare with her own. Miranda knew her gaze was strong enough to scatter children, stop men in their tracks, reduce hell hounds to whimpers before her feet and it wasn’t long before some mental wall broke inside the younger forgemaster and he dipped his head in defeat, giving an indignant huff. 

“Give me the bottle.” Isaac ordered. 

“Gladly.”

She watched in satisfaction as the young forgemaster threw back a swig before choking around the mouthful, swallowing the drink with a painful growl. 

“I can’t believe I’m letting you tempt me like this.” He groaned, wiping at his lip. 

“You’re giving this old lady too much credit. It was your decision.” 

Isaac glared at the bottle for a moment, turning it over in his hands briefly before passing it back to her. She watched humorously as the forgemaster picked at the dried blood between his fingers, avoiding her gaze. 

“It was but a sip,” he muttered grievously, more to himself than to her. 

“It can be more,” she chuckled, sloshing the remaining wine against the sides of the bottle temptingly, “We have plenty remaining and the night is still young.”

Isaac’s face hardened. “I’ll abstain,” he said plainly, “I’ll need my focus for tomorrow.” He stood up, tunic pulled taut around him and eyes narrowed down at her. “And I feel I should leave now, before you convince me to do something else foolish and irresponsible.”

Miranda chuckled mirthlessly, “Already? Burden of an old lady to teach her fellow colleague the indulgences of life,” She settled further into her chair, relishing in the intoxicating warmth of drink, “Come back when you’re finished at Styria then. If you survive, that is.”

Isaac already had his back to her, clapping his mirror into existence. She met the reflection of his heavy lidded gaze with a grim smile. 

“So long, pretty forgemaster,” she cackled, toasting her bottle towards him. The gesture was not lost on her fellow magician who grimaced humorlessly in return, “I’ll be waiting for your return.”

“That you will,” He said plainly. He gave her a curt nod, “Regards.” 

The air around him rippled once, twice, and Miranda was alone again.


End file.
